Whistling My Name
by xnteax
Summary: In which Arthur Kirkland has anger issues, Elizaveta Héderváry wants to get even with her musician boyfriend, who seems to spend more time on his music than her, and whoever thought Gilbert Beilschmidt would be the appropriate person to take on Radio Hetalia was obviously high (and even he agrees.) School AU.
1. Chapter 1

The large pile of papers were thumped in front of him, and over the top, the narrowed, speculative green eyes of Arthur Kirkland, school council president in the making, regarded him with an air of utter despair.

"Haven't you got better things to be doing with your time than vandalising school property?"

He rifled through the bundle of leaflets, thrusting one at him with desperation.

"What's the point of school for, if not to vandalise?" the occupant of the chair opposite him peered at the paper suspiciously, before he exclaimed with a cry of dismay, "I don't need _counselling._"

"It's not me," his companion was quick to assert, "It's from Principal Vargas," he cast a watchful look over his shoulder at the unassuming wall, before tagging on in a conspiratorial whisper, "I swear he knows _everything._" Gilbert Beilschmidt snorted, shoving it into the wastepaper bin which had materialised suddenly by his feet. To be honest, Arthur was impressed that he even _bothered_ to put it in.

"He knows damn well too much for my liking," he folded his arms, looking out of the window with an obstinate set to his jaw. It was damp outside, as it nearly always seemed to be in Britain, and he could feel his mood getting darker than the passing clouds, which gave an ominous roll of thunder as they amalgamated above the heads of the all too aware pupils, who, having run around the track innumerable times, were now looking hopefully to the teacher in the unsympathetic form of Mr Germania.

He blew sharply on the whistle twice, and as the rain started to drizzle down, he merely inclined his head, urging them to run faster. The only one who seemed to take it in their stride was Gilbert's little brother, who, in true Ludwig fashion, not only fairly _leapt_ ahead of the shivering mass, but managed to finish half a lap in front. "How he manages to, I have no idea. _I _heard he has cameras in all the dormitories of the students." The student in front of him gave a dismissive snort, before waving the information away.

"Nonsense – _I_ heard he was hiding in the lavato – nice try, Gilbert, but you're not getting away that quickly." The other German's only reply was to slide further down his chair, shoulders slumped, body limp like a ragdoll.

"Good effort, though."

"Can't you join a club?" His eyes, which had gradually been succumbing to the soporific nature of the room, lifted open for one moment, before quickly shutting again, as if the thought wasn't worth his time.

"What is there to join?" he retorted, and was only stopped from kicking his legs onto the table by the frosty glare that Arthur fixed on him, bushy eyebrows drawing together in a deep frown.

"Well if you hadn't got kicked out of - "

"Well if I was actually given a second to say I wasn't going to create any havoc there - "

"I wanted to say - "

"Well, I'm not going to - "

"_Shut up!_" The younger of the two students rose from his chair, kicking it back from the desk. He started to pace instead, running his hands distractedly through his hair as he held forth a fast paced ramble that seemed to alternate between insults directed at his unwanted guest, and a dialogue with the far corner, who he had called, "Flying Mint Bunny." Gilbert thought it was an odd name to call a piece of wallpaper, but he was in no position to judge; after all, he _was_ the owner of a chick. "Can you even hear yourself? You can't make excuses for your behaviour!"

"I do not make excuses!"

"You do, too! What about music club?"

"I - "

"_Uncontrolled playing of music speakers at full volume._ Art?"

"You - "

"_Spray-painting a canvas with the phrase, you're not misunderstood, you're just strange._ Drama?"

"They - "

"For upstaging and often undermining the production. I could go on about this all day, that's how many clubs you've been ejected from! The only thing left is the magic club, and I'll be damned before I let you set one foot in there." The miscreant snorted, although an unreadable expression flitted across his face at the remark.

"As if I'd want to join your pansy club, population of three." Arthur sighed, inhaling deeply, before he spun around, the tails of his blazer flapping as he did so. He was probably the only one, Gilbert mused as he let it wash over him, who could pull off a school look as well as he did; the only other person was Francis, although how long he spent pulling it off _literally_, was a matter which he didn't want to go into – at least, not until he was at least five beers in.

The room itself practically summed up Arthur's life in a nutshell, with the wooden floorboards and plain, whitewashed walls – there was something mild about it, all of the furniture and tastes blending together in some harmony, and, as a close acquaintance had once described him, Gilbert Beilschmidt, with his mop of uncombed white hair, rumpled shirt, askew tie and trousers that showed a distinct lack of ironing, was placed in the middle like a large, clashing chord. The only other thing which seemed a discrepancy was the smooth black guitar that rested against one of the walls, gleaming in the low light, and if his fingers were as quick as his tongue at talking his way in and out of trouble, he would have played it instantly.

"Principal Vargas also threatened to take me off as School Council Secretary if I didn't try and persuade you not to do something." The words echoed in the lull at followed, and any form of comfort in the room was dispelled.

"_What?_ He _can't!_"

"Why do you care," Arthur's voice was heavy with scorn, "You're doing an awfully good job of doing it for him."

"You're my…friend? I suppose?"

"You don't have friends, Gilbert, it's the great incapability of yours that you flaunt everywhere," he gave a weak smile, collapsing into the sofa that lay beside the door. "Thanks for the effort, though."

In a way, as caustic as the statement was, it was true; there was a popular saying around school, after all, that the ego the elder of the two maintained was big enough for a whole group of them. It wasn't to say that Arthur did have the latter either – everyone avoided him, or specifically his cooking like the plague.

The notion of him being made to step down as a member of the school council though, was unthinkable; it had been his lifelong ambition to become the student head of the school, ever since the beginning of secondary school, and it had become so integral to his life that his constant work (nowhere near Ludwig's, but still copious), had managed to isolate him from even the friendliest of the year. The idea of Arthur Kirkland never reaching his aim was as bizarre as the thought of Heracles Karpusi ever getting on with his roommate, or well, Ludwig not owning that particular stash of DVDs which he thought he had cleverly stowed from the prying eyes and wandering fingers of his family.

He didn't know quite what to comment on after that revelation; a large ego may have been all the support he needed, but he doubted that any words that would come out pertaining to his awesomeness would help.

"I'll do something," he promised fervently, his tongue working before his mind. "I swear."

"What matter is it? You'll just keep on being a vandal, and to be honest, I pity the poor kid who has to cope with you next."

"You're talking as if you don't have a chance."

"_Nobody_ has the faintest chance against you, Gilbert, not when you're still thinking about I -"

"I'm not talking about that," the latter replied, voice uncharacteristically sombre. "You aren't a qualified psychiatrist, so thanks, but no thanks, I don't want to talk about it. The ship has sailed, the bird has flown, the awesome has left that particular part of my life, and to quote you, you'd only be bolting the stable after the horse has gone. _Comprende?_" he kicked the chair backwards, and slung his backpack over his shoulder as he prepared to go. "Session finished, _president?_"

"I told you, I'm not president!" he heard him yell in exasperation as he left the room, and he couldn't help but release a burst of cackling, attracting numerous stares of incredulity.

He didn't even let his mood falter when Lovino Vargas attempted to punch him in the stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

The not-argument in Arthur's office stretches over a week, and neither of them try and find each other over the days. Gilbert does try and stay out of trouble though, but it constantly finds him; nothing too awful, but enough, when he's finished his week and finds Elizaveta, to merit a frying pan to the head.

She stays at Hetalia Girls' School, across the road, fenced away by iron and brick. It's hard to integrate, despite the near proximity – it's ruled with an iron fist by the Egyptian head, and only her deputy can sway her from her normally stern disposition. They're formidable, and as Lovino had said once, with a glare, they have Prinicipal Vargas, certifiably, definitely whipped.

Elizaveta looks as if she's in training already.

Out of all the girls he knows, Gilbert would say that Elizaveta has the most spirit, but then again, his knowledge is limited, extended only to a Ukrainian and a Belarusian who weren't exactly functioning pillars of society. She's certainly got character and a beauty that cannot be seen in just looks. She has a shade of hair that wavers between blonde and brown and her eyes are a deep green, like the trees in a forest he visited when he was younger, abundant with leaves, and a voice that's pleasant to the ears. Her moods, though volatile, are often provoked for a good reason, and, he thinks, lifting a hand to his aching head as she lowers the cooking implement, he just can't seem to ever satisfy her. He likes to think that the perpetual physical abuse is just a way of showing affection, but the more sceptical part of him doubts it.

"You," she proclaims, slinging the pan over her shoulder, unruffled by the sudden exercise, "Are an absolute brain-dead specimen of an idiot."

"I'm sure there's a tautology in that somewhere," he bemoans. "I know. You've only been telling me since I was five." His not-quite-friend breaks into a razor sharp smile at the comment, clapping him on the back as he staggers to his feet, head reeling. A dull ache has formed in the area, throbbing with every step he takes to their destination, and he can't help but think how strange they look, a girl with a frying pan and a boy with more than a few injuries, hobbling to the entrance of the ice cream parlour.

It's a school run business; immensely popular, that much he knows, judging by the swarm of pupils who cram into it every day after school, and one of the best meeting spots for both schools. Nobody takes much notice of them as they shuffle in, too preoccupied with their own small clusters, chattering excitedly about the events of the school week, and they pick out an empty seat – or empty, since the previous occupants had vacated it as soon as they saw the pair travel towards them.

They're by the window, and after placing their orders with a blonde who looks entirely too happy to be doing such a job, he takes the opportunity of examining his aggrieved area in the gleaming surface of the window. It's starting to create a bruise, and the discolouration stands out on his pale scalp, and even more amongst his hairs, as fine and white as they are. His blood red eyes stare at him from their position on the glass, and he sticks his tongue out in a fit of childish whim, oblivious to the disapproving stare of Elizaveta, who has taken to an entirely more dignified manner of waiting, namely, sitting with near perfect posture, pan at the ready for any misdemeanour. He's not sure how it manages to get lugged around as frequently as it does; the last time he'd asked that, he'd only been responded to with a casual wave of said utensil. However she does it, it's frankly, extremely creepy a lot of the time, although her ninja skills are fiercely contested by Kiku Honda, whose camera is almost as opportunistic as her frying pan.

In the window, his reflection frowns, and he rubs at the wrinkles on his forehead, eyeing himself with an assessing glance. Nobody knows where he'd inherited his genes – he's built for speed, rather than complete strength, and his odd hair and eyes don't bear any familial resemblance. According to his father, there'd even been doubts about his parentage when he was younger, although that was disproven when, to his surprise and delight, they found he'd inherited the same penchant for beer and football that seemed to dominate the family.

Somebody even once claimed he had crawled from one of the pits of hell himself, and his red irises were the two pieces of scorching coal which he'd slotted in before assimilating himself into human society. Rumours like that didn't bother him in the way they were meant to – or at least Elizaveta and Arthur would certainly say so. If it was even possible, he seemed to perpetuate the rumours; after all, as he would say, when asked with incredulity, it kept him in a steady supply of pocket money and had consolidated his position as a man of mystery. It was mostly the money part which appealed to him – it had helped him pay back the large debts he owed to both Francis and Alfred after making an inaccurate bet at the last House Tournament, and when he was really impecunious, despite his efforts, there was a big chance he could get a younger student to cough up money simply by smiling at them.

"Doesn't it ever bother you?" he'd been asked once, aeons ago, and he remembered shrugging off the comment, despite the pangs of guilt that he occasionally felt. A year of boarding school in Russia had quickly dispelled any morality he had attached to that and he pitied anyone who thought he might have altered during his leave. Russia had hardened him, brought out some of the ugliest aspects of life he hadn't known about before, and it had stuck with him, a cool hard sharp thing that had embedded itself like shrapnel, cushioned in the flesh of his skin.

"I was saying," Elizaveta speaks, bringing him back to the present with a jolt, her green eyes wide and inquiring, "Were you listening?"

"No!"

"Ugh," she rolls her eyes, but it's in a fondness that would be difficult to discern simply from a brief acquaintance. It's layered, with years of knowledge and subtlety that somehow manage to work their way into the whole word. "I was telling you about the radio station which they could be dropping. Nobody's interested in it anymore, at least, not the students, and that was what it was meant to be."

"I'm not surprised," Gilbert sniggers, earning a few reprimanding glares from the less loud patrons of the enterprise. "They keep playing the same kind of shit music which repeats itself after an hour. There's no variety. I mean, who listens to that crap anyway?"

"You're surprisingly vocal on something which you don't claim to be interested in," Elizaveta is appraising him in a way that reminds him of a dissection in science; and he's on the end of the scalpel. "I take it you think you could do a better job?"

"It's meant to be for students and there's a certain amount of stuff on there that isn't aimed at them at all. Of course I could do a better job!"

"In fact, they're thinking of closing it down at the end of the next council meeting. The one at the end of the year."

"You don't need to do plot exposition for me Liz, I already know this stuff."

"Oh good," and it's at that moment that he realises that he's probably given an answer to a question that she hasn't asked. She's good at things like that – getting people to agree on things that they normally don't, and it's probably the reason why she's so influential at her school. Sometimes he wonders why she even bothers to try and be his therapist, when she's already got a hundred other students in arm distance. He often entertains the idea that it's because he intentionally makes things difficult – for one thing, makes it more awesome, and promptly waves it away, focusing instead on the ice cream which has appeared in front of him. Unlike his companion, who appears to have gone for the healthy, fruit salad option, his own order sits in front of him, a mountain of maple syrup, whipped cream, pecan nuts and vanilla ice cream. A cone wafer is perched at the top, stuck in like the flag of some explorer who has just conquered a high altitude, and he chooses that to crunch into first, the sound satisfactorily noisy enough to merit yet another batch of scathing stares. She watches him with a small, unreadable smile. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"

"I've got get kicks from somewhere," he shrugs, demolishing the final crumb with vim, "I'm sure as – well, pretty sure I'm not turning to drugs for that. I'm not that desperate."

"Instead you sit in a café getting a high out of crunching noisy food. What an adventurous life you lead."

"Hey, sarcasm is unawesome. Stop it."

"I'm sure," she mimics him with an astonishing likeness, arms folded, deepening her voice with worrying ease, "You used a non-existent word." The sun is bright, and pools on the plastic of their table, and she places a hand on top of it, letting out a sound of satisfaction. The heat warms her skin, welcoming and just the right side of too hot. There's something about her expression that sets him on edge, and perhaps it's the way the smile stretches, like a languorous cat, across her cheeks as she almost seems to make herself at home in the light. It shines through her hair, turning the brown to a rich beech, and she regards him with a fond, predatory glint in her eyes.

"You're planning something?" he asks, and she jerks up, broken momentarily from her gaze.

"What makes you say that?" she queries, and her voice has suddenly reached a higher pitch, which, out of many tells, starts to confirm his suspicion.

"You've got the same expression on your face when you persuaded me to drive across to the other end of the school grounds, which are fucking huge, mind you, and yell obscenities to the closest girls' dorm."

"I thought Roderich lived there."

"Exactly," There's a frisson of tension that runs through the air at the name, and for once in the conversation, it's Gilbert who seems to have the upper hand. They don't talk much about Roderich Edelstein if they can help it, in the same way that Gilbert will almost never ever talk about either Fritz, or Russia. They're a little too close to be left in the past at the moment, and one of the no-go areas, which he has to navigate dangerously around is that particular topic. They've never agreed on the subject of the Austrian, and probably never will. "I ended up with suspension because of that."

"I didn't make you do it," she leaps to her own defence, "I just suggested it to you." There's another flash of a mischievous smile, the sort she used to give in abundance, and he wonders whether he should tell her that it's when she looks most beautiful, with hair in disarray, an animated face, and eyes as bright and as lively as the day he met her.

She'd been caked in mud then, full of scratches from thorns and her clothes smeared in dirt, short clad legs thigh deep in earth, and Gilbert had thought she was a forest spirit who'd been sent to claw out his eyes. (Instead, for a few brief months when they were older, she'd clawed out his heart, and it had never been quite the same again.) When she coughs, it's only then he realises he's been staring, and they both break eye contact, blushes rising on both their cheeks.

"We already gave it a go," she recalls with a firm, gentle voice, eyes still averted, gazing at the occupants of the café instead with avid interest. "Remember?"

"If it wasn't for Roderich…"

"It was us. I was hung up on him, and he still liked me -"

"He gave you a shit excuse for the breakup, you mean."

"- and well, there was you and, well…by the time I'd stopped being infatuated with you, you'd started and…"

You were always too late in catching up with things, is what she doesn't say, but the message is clear, and he's well aware of the fact. Instead of pursuing the line of conversation, he pays particular attention to his food, as he normally does. It tastes delicious, as it should, but there's something rather unsatisfactory about it after such a conversation.

"Remember when we broke up?" he says casually, because he has to be a jerk, at least once a day, and at the moment, he doesn't particularly care who he inflicts it on, even if it's on her. "I remember our conversation going something like this." He watches with a detached concern as her fingers tighten round the spoon. It trembles in her grip, and when she lifts her eyes up to meet him, she's quivering, as if she's a bowstring, stretched too tightly over an overly large arrow. Her eyes are wide, like a deer in headlights and she responds.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?"

There's the feeling of guilt that gnaws inside him as they continue the meal in silence. He presses it down.

After, all, as Arthur says, adroitly, he doesn't have friends.

"I'm sorry," the cashier says when he arrives the next week, and although his smile is wide, his eyes are hard and unforgiving, "She left, like, ten minutes ago, totally." He pushes his way out of the queues, scowling, and oblivious to other peoples' complaints.

"I didn't need to see her anyway," he shoves past two chattering students as he heads for the main door. "Like I need somebody telling me what to do. West already gives me that stuff at home." He studiously avoids looking at any reflective surface on the lonely walk back to lessons, and if he happens to pass the girls' school? He turns away, and in no way scans the dark windows for any hint of a familiar, friendly face.

* * *

**I haven't updated recently yet, so I thought I'd insert this. I'm sorry for the change of tenses - I had a sudden change of heart about the tenses - thought that may happen. I'll edit it later. I swear I didn't mean to put in PruHun angst, I swear. I don't normally ship them, but it sort of managed to write itself. Gilbert is a bit of a jerk, but I'm sure he'll improve. Maybe. **

**I hope you enjoyed the bonus Poland at the end. He works part-time at the shop because a little extra money never goes amiss (also because no-one else seems to want to do it.) There are sometimes issues in the UK due to Polish immigrants taking jobs because of reasons a little like it. At least, from what I've understood from the news.**


	3. Chapter 3

_Gilbert Beilschmidt's Inbox_, **19 September 10:59 pm**

_You have (3) new messages! Thank you for using our system._

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: Radio Station  
Message: What. The. Fuck._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
Subject: Re: Radio Station  
Message: Missing my awesomeness already? Couldn't you wait until school? I'm playing a video game at the moment._

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: Re: Re: Radio Station  
Message: I can't tell whether you're joking or not. Get off the video game, this instant and do some work._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
Subject: WHO ARE YOU, WEST?  
Message: LOL, you're not getting me off (heh, see what I did there) this game, President Eyebrows._

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: DO I LOOK LIKE I BENCHPRESS ONE MILLION POUNDS A DAY?  
Message: If you were the only Boche in the trench, and I had the only bomb…I STILL wouldn't get you off. Stop making things so vulgar._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
Subject: NO, BUT YOU BOTH HAVE A STICK UP YOUR ASS  
Message: Says the person who gives lapdances while he's drunk. (Also, First World War songs, really? You wound me.)_

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: HAHAHA, I DON'T EVEN NEED TO WATCH A DRAMA, I'M JUST ENJOYING YOUR LAME ATTEMPT AT A PISSING CONTEST.  
Message: I have no recollection of those incidents. Also, may I add, I'm not the only one who gets drunk._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
Subject: YOU MEAN MY AWESOME CONTEST. YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS.  
Message: What was the point of this email anyway? I can't spend all my time on you, Arthur. Other people would get jealous that you're using up my awesome time with them._

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: I'M JEALOUS THAT I'M AS PATHETIC AS YOU? HARDLY  
Message: I don't know whether you have a point to anything at all. Although if you're talking about your awful idea of a prank, just read the first subject – you know what, let's just cut to it. You. Applied. To. Take. Over. The. Radio. Station._

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: ….  
Message: Are you alright? You haven't replied for twenty minutes._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
Subject: Haha, you're joking right?  
Message: You've got to be joking. What radio station?_

_From: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
To: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
Subject: I hope this isn't a joke, arse.  
Message: In case you forgot because of your pure "awesome," I've attached the document. I managed to scan the contents of the form for you. It _is_ your writing._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Arthur Kirkland (akirkland .uk)  
Subject: I swear on my life I did not know about this  
Message: \sjdklgnka;dlsrfg;l…FUCK._

_Gilbert Beilschmidt's Inbox, _**19 September 11:59 pm**

_You have (2) new messages! Thank you for using our system._

_From: His Awesomeness (gbeilschmidt .de)  
To: Elizaveta Héderváry (ehedervary hungarianmail)  
Subject: Any explanation?  
Message: I can't believe you signed me up for this. Don't think I can't tell what your imitation of your writing looks like. I'm too awesome for this shit._

His fingers hung over the keys for another few moments as he bit his lip in concentration, before another line of words made themselves clear.

_Sorry about Saturday._

With a steady hand, he sent the message, and hoped it wouldn't be consigned to some dusty corner of her inbox, or worse still, utterly ignored.

* * *

Merry Christmas! Thank you for following the story, if you did!


	4. Chapter 4

"You need other people to help you out," Elizaveta mused as she twirled spaghetti around her fork. The strands slid and slipped together, the whole plate overflowing with bolognaise. "A oadio station isn't exactly reliant on a sole contributor.'"

"I'm not doing it." The sound of plastic crinkling filled the air as he tore his straw out of the small container.

"Gilbert, it was approved. You can't back out of it now."

"_You_ signed me up for it." He stabbed the straw into his juice carton viciously, the small cover making a loud sound as the foil seemed to burst under the force of the tube.

"Are you _still_ going on about that?"

"If it was your idea of a joke, it wasn't very fucking funny. I'm too _awesome_ for this shit. Look, you started it, so shouldn't it be your responsibility?" he snapped between gulps of the orange juice. It tasted sour on his tongue, and he had to restrain a shudder as it trickled down his throat. The Hungarian must have noticed though, because without a word, she had poured a glass of water from the jug by her side, and pushed it towards him. He nodded in gratitude. "OK, look, I know I was a prick the other day, but there's a difference between bringing up a past relationship, and you know, a _radio station._" Her back stiffened at that, and when he lifted his eyes to meet her gaze, it bordered on glacial.

"Really Gilbert?" she replied frostily, "Because unless I'm mistaken, both of those things involve _responsibility._" He held up his hands in a placatory gesture, setting down his drink.

"OK, wow, I shouldn't have brought it up. You could have just _forgiven_ me though. Or hit me around the head with a frying pan, you know, like you usually do!" She tilted her head, as if in consideration, before raising her eyebrow with a sceptical expression.

"Excuse me if I'm wrong, but I'm starting to think you haven't exactly taken it seriously for a long time. I also have a feeling it's not good for your brain cells either," She prodded at a meatball, shunting it towards him. "Eat."

They were in the school cafeteria – one of the venues in which both genders could visit, although it had to be said that many eschewed it in favour of the meals to be found in the surrounding city. It was located on the edge of the school grounds, almost exactly on the border between the two schools, and also, rather conveniently, where the radio station was positioned.

"'m not hungry," he responded at length, eyeing the food with disdain. "I don't see how you can eat that stuff," The meatball, as if inhabited with a life on its own seemed to trundle a little further towards him, and he promptly recoiled. "I really _don't,_ woman."

"I swear I never see you eat anything but junk food and concentrated fruit juice. You're like a bird, but you're certainly not skeletal enough to be one."

"Maybe I'm an overweight bird," he puffed out his cheeks in retaliation, narrowly avoiding the trajectory of the tomato sauce that flew past his ear. "What did I do this time?"

"As I was _saying,_" she pointed the fork at him, strands of spaghetti dangling from it wildly, "You need help."

"I've been told that several times."

"Would you stop diverting the topic?"

"Fine! You're just jealous of my awesome!" he snapped, and she snorted.

"Oh, you must be kidding," she rolled her eyes as she started on her salad, crisp leaves crunching under the assault of the cutlery's prongs. "You think I'd honestly envy a person who overuses the same adjective, and seems content _not_ to expand his vocabulary?"

"I resent that! Lack of vocabulary doesn't mean a lack of intelligence!"

"Well defended – it does demonstrate a certain lack of imagination if you haven't thought about branching out, though."

"Are you saying I'm _unimaginative?_"

"I never implied it was you, Gilbert, I can't imagine where you're getting your ideas from," She seemed to find the patch of air just above his left shoulder extremely interesting, and he scowled, sinking further into his seat, the material of his hooded jacket crumpling quietly. Everything from his dishevelled hair to his untucked shirt seemed to reek of a hooligan, and, Elizaveta thought as she rolled a piece of tomato in her mouth, one of the _exact_ reasons why she'd volunteered him. "Besides, I also signed you up because I thought one of the qualities a good radio DJ possessed was, you know, talking the ear of somebody with inane chatter."

"_Hey!_" she shrugged, wiping her mouth with her napkin, before screwing it into a large ball.

"At least I can multitask next time you have a problem. I can do my work _and_ have your complaining in the background."

"I don't announce my personal issues to the whole school!"

"At this rate," she returned, noting idly that Gilbert's words tended to venture into a musical scale upwards, "I'd take those words back." Any further protests were promptly ignored as she took out a notebook from her voluminous bag, the contents of it rattling a little as they were displaced. It was a small, leather bound book, and seemed innocuous, but her companion eyed it with suspicion.

"What is that?"

"A list," she declared, flicking through the pages, innumerable sheets covered in her elegant sloping handwriting. If there was a contest purely based on script, he was sure she would have walked home with first prize – it was copperplate enough to make even the most expert Victorian jealous. "Now, there are some of these here who I think would make an ideal candidate – Roderich, for one, Vash Zwingli, your brother, Matthew Williams, Lukas Bondevik - "

"I haven't even heard of half of these people!" his suspicion was only compounded when she flashed him a small, cryptic smile over the top of the book. "How do you know them an – _shit,_ is that your list of _shippings_ for me?" He lunged for it almost instantly, only to find himself landing on the cold, detergent smelling linoleum floor as she moved out of the way. "I should have recognised that immediately. _Fuck._ I'm not taking part in some crazed fangirl dream about yaoi or whatever the fuck it's called. Ugh, you even put me with your _boyfriend!_"

"Oh come on," she waved a dismissive hand as he struggled to his feet, glaring venomously at the potent collection of names. "It's not as if Roderich isn't attractive. Besides, the things he could do with a whip…"

"I don't even want to know," he snapped as she seemed to immerse herself in some form of rapturous daydream. "I really don't want to know what you two get up to in your spare time." As if he'd flicked a switch, her expression immediately shuttered.

"I haven't seen him for a week," she proclaimed briskly, snapping the book shut. "He said he had work issues."

"Well tell him to stop working, then. Burn his sonatas or whatever. Then again, wouldn't he get really pissy about that?"

"You don't say," she remarked dryly. "You know, whenever you commit an act of vandalism on a musical instrument, a poor Hungarian is once again subjected to the most awful rant about your hooligan ways," She busied herself with once again rummaging in her bag, her voice growing progressively more thick, as if she'd swallowed too much of something at once. "I swear I'm more of his therapist than his girlfriend, and then he has the audacity to tell me that it would be horribly bad of him, but please could he postpone our date for the next evening, only he has yet more music to compose."

"Do you want me to go and have a talk?"

"Hahaha, _no._ He's perfectly gentlemanly about the whole thing. I knew, anyway, that when I was going out with him, music would be his first love. Anyway," she cleared her throat, throat working as she attempted to restrain a choked sound. "You need some help with this station."

"You should work with me," her head jerked up at that, and she stared at him with disbelief. "I'm serious."

"Gilbert, we'll end up driving each other crazy."

"Hey, I'm awesome, I'll figure something out."

"You can't just _do_ that!"

"Says who? It's my station, I'll do whatever I want, right? You got me into this in the first place, I'm pretty sure we can somehow get out of this mess. Besides, you're better at getting people to agree than I am, _peacefully,_" He lifted a hand to rub at the nape of his neck almost self-consciously, "I can't believe I'm actually saying this. Besides, if you don't agree, you'll spend the whole of your life regretting you missed out on something so awesome."

"…you really need to work on selling things," she replied after a long stretch of silence, frowning. "You really do. But," she held up a hand, pre-empting his protest. "It's not a no. Just…give me a little longer to think about it, alright? I have to go to lessons now, but I _will_ give you an answer soon," She slung the strap of her bag around her shoulders, raising one hand in goodbye.

"I can't quite believe I'm doing this."

"Kesekesekese, of _course_ you can."

"I don't even _know_ how to start a radio…" Arthur shuddered. "…station," He blinked at the single sheet in front of him, outlining a brief plan – to his surprise, meticulously detailed – on how exactly the next two weeks would work. He held it up so it would catch the light, ameliorating the strain on his already well used eyes, skimming the top few lines. "How many people did you say were helping you again?"

"One," Gilbert replied, examining his fingernails which seemed more than a little fascinating. "Yeah, one." The blonde's lips pursed at the tone of the response. He set the paper down, the legs of his chair scraping across the wood of his office as he stood, going around the desk to lean over the albino with a neutral expression.

"How many lessons did you say you skipped to plan this?"

"Not many, just three – _fuck!_"

"No expletives in here please. Gilbert, as much as I admire the fact that you seem to be taking something in your life _seriously_ for once -"

"- Hey, I take pride in being an excellent big brother!"

"I can't help but point out that while this is constructive, you _need _to focus on your work."

"This _is_ work! Look Arthur, I know this is impacting your career or whatever sad thing people build up in school, but remember, _I_ didn't ask you to take an interest in whether or not I was improving, and I most certainly don't recall you being a _counsellor!_"

"Do you think I wanted to take an interest any more than you did?" he snarled back, his tone defensive as he straightened, arms folded. "I was forced to, and I was _trying_ to make the best of it I could, but my God, you're not helping at all. Do you _know_ how many times I've had to take attendance slips from teachers who've filed them? You skip every other class, and your grades are the only thing keeping you afloat. You can't just come up to me and _expect_ me to help you when you obviously don't want to be helped!"

It was never clarified who threw the first punch, but to say that the two had a disagreement would be an understatement. He was only a little taller than Arthur, and quick on his feet, while the other had a knack for sensing open spaces, and evenly matched. By the end of it, Arthur had managed to gain a winded stomach, a bruised neck and several cuts from the fight, while Gilbert wound up with less, if more noticeable marks. A black eye was beginning to puff up around one eye, while a long shallow cut had been created across his jaw. Slumped adjacent to each other against the foot of the desk, they exchanged weary glances, and Arthur winced as he rolled his neck tentatively, fingers skittering across his frame as he made a quick assessment of his injuries.

"Well," Gilbert declared, one hand resting on his side as he cradled his ribs, "That was cathartic." Blood was beginning to bubble from the edge of his cut, trickling down his neck and the Englishman thought he looked more like the victim of a ravaging by a vampire than having come out of a fight.

"I think we need to go to the san," he announced, having taken an inventory of his bruises, before standing with what he thought was admirable fortitude. His face scrunched in pain, thick eyebrows drawing together. "You have a good right hook."

"You can do good uppercuts," the other responded, before, after some thought, adding, "Even if your nails are fucking sharp."

It would be cliché, in some respects to say that they immediately became the best of friends – there were as many things different about them than similar to completely get rid of the fraction that sometimes came between them, but it did mean that Gilbert had in some way, managed to gain help from the other. Arthur, on the other hand, was seeing a lot less of his teachers, and, rather sadly, a lot more of his homework, which had during the day, been almost constantly buried underneath the small pile of complaints.

The only thing which was left to do, it seemed, was to actually check out the station itself. It was of moderate height, built like a solid block, while a small satellite dish stuck out from its side like the antennae of an alien. It was set up, much to his surprise, much like the boarding houses at the school, with the exception of a foyer, which, with its rich carpet and flowery wallpaper, looked as if it belonged more in a hotel than a station. Going past that on the ground floor were several rooms filled with what looked to be technology that had been outdated by years, while the first floor was equipped for a studio, and the remaining two merely filled with empty rooms that appeared not to have been touched for years. There was a sense of mystery about the whole thing, going from room to room and sweeping the dustsheets off, although the German rather wisely decided to abstain from touching any of the buttons until he'd located an instruction manual.

"You can see why this shut down," he murmured aloud, giving nearly everything a cursory glance. He gave a particularly low whistle as he located yet another covered object, tugging it away to reveal a particularly sleek looking electric keyboard. "Well, _shit._" In retrospect, he was extremely glad he had come to survey the scene, because the next thing he knew, there was a shrill ring from his phone, something which, in the silence of the building almost made him jump out of his skin.

Elizaveta's initial of Arthur Kirkland hadn't been the most flattering – in fact the thing she'd noticed the most when he'd entered the ice cream shop was – _damn, he has bushy eyebrows._ The second thing she'd seen was the rather belligerent attitude he seemed to project, as if he had something to prove – a trait she thought, fitted rather well with Gilbert's own.  
He'd shuffled into the room wearing a scowl, casual clothing still painfully smart, and had promptly taken up residence in the seat opposite the door, as if, like in spy stories, he was ever so carefully noting all possible entrances and exits and placing himself accordingly.

She hadn't recognised him immediately – Gilbert was notoriously bad at giving fair descriptions of a person, or any description at all. "Grumpy, blonde hair, really bad eyebrows," he'd given as a short explanation over the phone the evening before, as he'd gone tearing off to do who knows what. She could only assume that his own description of her was equally vague, because they sat at opposite ends of the room for a solid hour before she lowered the book she'd been reading, sudden recognition dawning as she recalled the description. It must have dawned on him as well, and they moved out of their seats at the same time, prompting several others to chuckle quietly, regardless of the glare which they received from both. They remained that way for what seemed like forever, caught in an uneasy balancing act before the Hungarian, realising the sheer idiocy of their postures succumbed to the pull of gravity, falling back into her seat.

"Elizaveta Hedervary?" He queried, extending a hand as if he was ten years older than he actually was, "I'm Arthur Kirkland. It's nice to meet you. I take it we're here for the same thing?"

Ah. The reason why she was currently freezing her insides instead of doing some much needed work, namely, an impromptu meeting called by the school council treasurer. Vash Zwingli.  
It was a name which could have been a well identified synonym for trigger-happy and miserly – his sister was two years below, a little quiet, but polite, and, according to all accounts, a direct contrast to her elder brother. Rumour had it he held the student council in the palm of his hand, and most of the club funds. He was the centre of a large portion of many of the school horror stories, involving rifles, naked Italians and besmirched honour, while he was the epitome of a protective elder brother – one look at his sister in any way that he didn't deem innocent, and the perpetrator was liable to find himself held at gunpoint in a chapel, while the priest stuttered out the wedding vows.

Those rumours weren't even the tip of the large iceberg. According to lore, the Zwinglis, who had been educated at the school for at least two generations, knew the school better than even Gilbert, and had no qualms about hiding bodies for days on end in some secluded hallway.  
Needless to say, the albino, when he received the sharp, brief message on his phone, was more than eager to sprint as fast as he could into town.

Elizaveta had never been one to be intimidated easily; she'd certainly intimidated more than enough people from her own days dressed as a boy, and even then, was no less lethal when wearing a dress. She was a weapon clothed in some semblance of human skin, Gilbert had said, once, when they'd had an especially long, physically exhausting fight. He'd always been a little in awe and a little in fear of her – although it would take something bordering torture to admit that.

The devil reincarnate had decided to grace them with his presence, and lesser beings would probably have quailed at his arrival. The devil incarnate being Vash Zwingli of course, not Gilbert, who had come sprinting in only seconds afterwards, murmuring apologies at high speed as he appraised the situation quickly. Albeit, said demon was wrapped up in a teenage gun-toting blonde who took sadism past the realms of Ludwig Beilschmidt's dreams concerning his sibling.

He merely gave them a bored nod, as if it was beneath him to even deign to acknowledge their presence, waving at the nearby seats (a completely different area, as if he _liked_ causing them psychological torture) with an imperial air.

"Sit down."

"I'll - "

"Sit." The three dropped onto the artificial wooden chairs with only a squeak between them – even that seemed to come from the legs of the seats as they gave a little under their weight. The Englishman next to her sat, back stiff with tension as he cast glances almost everywhere, eyes darting from the walls to the drink machines, while Gilbert concentrated studiously on what must have been a fascinating part of the doorway. Or maybe the doorway in general was just so gripping. It certainly looked appealing to her.

"I presume you know who I am," he leant forward, placing a thin file in front of him, and there was something so eerie about his calm that even she had to restrain a shiver, "Likewise, most," his gaze swept the whole of them, taking in Arthur's…unusual facial accoutrements, his painstakingly tidy appearance and the way he gripped the table tightly. He perused Elizaveta next, and she had the horrible feeling of being under a microscope, as if he could see into her and catalogue every single crack. His gaze landed then on Gilbert, and his face, stuck in something resembling the border between pain and disapproval twitched into an outright scowl. "Received my email. I came to talk to you about this because the rest of the council seemed rather reluctant." There was a stifled snort from Gilbert.

"I don't blame them." He promptly schooled his facial expression into one of contriteness, only increased tenfold by the way Elizaveta kicked him underneath the table. If it was possible, the scowl only deepened.

"Well, that leads me to the question of why _you_ nominated yourself for it."

"I - "

"Despite this, I came to notify you that _unless_ you actively want to have this closed, you're going to have to save money. The previous owners weren't exactly the best of friends with that thing known as school expenditure."  
Arthur immediately stepped in, delivering points in a cool, precise manner – as if for once he was showing _exactly_ how capable he was of running something like this. It was as if he knew exactly what he was talking about, which was rather a shame, because he had a tic – his middle finger twitched once every so often – and it was an indicator that quite frankly, he was pulling figures and arguments out of his arse – not that Gilbert really objected. In fact, he almost wanted to kiss it.

In a non-gay way.

Elizaveta, who seemed to have an instant stream of the output his mind often formulated merely chuckled, and shot one of her condescending smirks towards him. In fact, it was the blonde who managed to eke out a lot of potential thoughts about the direction they should take, and he was only stopped when Vash forcibly clapped a hand over his mouth. His jaw was still working, even if his vocal chords weren't, and judging by his expression, he was torn between highly affronted, and as some might say, scared _shitless._ Which was another shame, thought Gilbert, because that would mean that technically, it would go from his…to…his…he shuddered visibly, and it was then that the full bore of Vash's attention moved, pendulum-like, from his acquaintance to him with all the feline grace of a cat.

"Tell me, Beilschmidt, Miss Hédérvary," he began, shuffling from one note to the other, detaching his hand from Arthur's orifice, "What will _you_ bring to this?"

"Is this a job interview or a statistics update? I really don't know anymore." A frying pan promptly materialised into Elizaveta's hand with alacrity, and with the same rapidness, she wasted absolutely no time on introducing it to the German's formerly unblemished head.

"Gilbert, you're not helping."

"I was going to say," muttered Gilbert, eyeing her balefully, "We were talking about cutting costs, right?" Vash's lip twitched infinitesimally upwards.

"It's been the subject of conversation for the past half hour, and Arthur has already suggested simply selling half the equipment there."  
_Oh great._

"What I was going to say, was, to er, expand on Arthur's idea, right? I was listening, is to, erm…" _Think, think, think, where are plans when I need them?_ "Openaninternetstationinstead andlivestreamittotherestofth eschoolforawhile."

"…sorry, _what?_"

"It would cut costs," he tried for guileless, which it can be said, had _never_ worked on a Beilschmidt, excepting his younger brother who probably didn't even know the _meaning_ of the word, so fixated on openness. "Opening up one on the internet as a test. We can pre-record something and stream it at breaks, and, if it got more traffic, we could attempt to buy in better recording sounds from the profits made out of the old ones. I mean, the old ones, they're, well, vintage, right? Isn't that the in thing at the moment, along with really big headphones and a penchant for bands no-one's heard of?"

"...wouldn't the cost of the wireless the school has to pay only add to the upkeep?"

"It's a lot cheaper than having to pay for the whole building, and seeing as we're in charge, I propose we rent it out to the cheapskates. I know someone who's willing." There was a pause as he nodded almost imperceptibly to Elizaveta, who caught on immediately.

"Oh my…isn't that _cruel?_ He's going to have to wake up insanely early to make it to class on time!"

"…I'm not objecting, Lizzy."

"I know _you're_ not, you hate him, but he's my boyfriend, I'm not going to inflict that on him!"

"Hey, he's got more space to put his music, and…"

"I'm loath to intrude on you tete a tete, but who _is_ this?"

"Roderich Edelstein," they answered simultaneously, before promptly quaking at the look of absolute glee that came over Vash's face. "You know him?"

"Too well for my liking – you're planning on subjecting him to life in the radio station?" Abruptly, he began sorting the documents into the file with a curt nod. "I think that settles it. You have one term to prove yourself capable."

"That's _it?_" He turned as he was exiting the small corner he had put them in, one blonde eyebrow raised.

"Why?"

"Isn't there something else?"

"Get Roderich Edelstein into one of those rooms, subject him to living in bohemian ways, and _honestly,_ get him to learn how to look after himself instead of imposing himself on others." They were left in almost stupefied shock.

"…I have a feeling _I_ should be the one saying _that._"

* * *

I think it needs more awesome. Thank you for following, and I hope you enjoyed this installment! Constructive criticism and reviews are appreciated. I'm fairly sure some of these characters are OOC, but some have their reasons, while others, I haven't quite got the feel of at the moment.

Psst, want to know a secret? Principal Vargas might think he has control over his school, but the School Council (headed unofficially by Vash Zwingli, who would totally run for President if he didn't think another person would be less capable of running the funds) need to be looked out for.

Hetalia is owned by Himaruya, I have no authority over any of these official characters. If I did, it (the manga) wouldn't be as fun (different, less...humorous... humour). I also probably wouldn't write this and, well, my artistic skills would be better.


	5. Chapter 5

It is one of the sad realities of life that agreeing to do something and actually _doing _it are two extremely different things. The only thing which links them is the subject matter, and when the initial euphoria had worn off; they were allowed to have a _radio station,_ Gilbert revised the previous conversation.

He promptly made to rush out of the café in a fit of panic.

Several spilled chairs later, when Elizaveta and Arthur had tried to restrain him forcibly, and the former had resorted to whacking him on the shins with a conveniently placed ice cream scoop, he reviewed the proceedings once more.

"Fuck," he mumbled into the table. The drinks they'd ordered while waiting had left sticky, ring shaped marks on the surface, and coupled with the odour of detergent that permeated the table-top, it was enough to make him feel vaguely queasy. "_Fuck._"

"Oh calm down," Arthur sniffed, expression neutral. "You'd think you'd just been told you impregnated a girl and she was expecting you to raise it."

"I doubt Gilbert would even get that _far,_" Elizaveta returned, helping herself to the albino's abandoned ice cream. She mumbled past the spoon. "Although he's not a hopeless case. There's a certain…charm to him, if you go for self-pitying, moronic, obnoxious types." The last part of the sentence was muttered quietly, but it was still loud enough to cause the subject of the conversation to spring back to life with a scowl.

"I am _not_ moronic!" he snapped, before snatching back his ice cream and eyeing the woeful contents with a look of sheer incredulity. "Oh _shit,_ how much of this did you even _eat?_ You're going to get fat, you know. Isn't that a thing that girls obsess over – mmph!"

Any further jibing was promptly stemmed by the napkin that the brunette shoved into his mouth. She smiled beatifically as she rose from her seat. Gilbert had taken the outside, and when she edged past him in order to leave, she took special care to step on both his feet.

_Hard._

"It was lovely to meet you Arthur," she took the Englishman's proffered hand, managing to make herself heard over Gilbert's incoherent spluttering. "I hope this wasn't an inconvenience. Why don't we meet up again after school on Monday to discuss exactly how to go about things?"

The blonde's gaze flitted between her retreating back and the sputtering German next to him, expression gleeful.

"I think I've fallen in love." He declared as Gilbert finally managed to propel the offending tissue away from him. The ensuing silence that fell over them was punctuated by hacking coughs as the latter attempted to expel the scraps of paper left in his mouth, but in between them, the distinct disgruntled "get in line," was more than audible.

Operation: Get Roderich Edelstein the Freeloader out of My House began on a rainy Monday afternoon, when the three congregated in Arthur's dormitory, armed with pencils, pens, and a copious amount of paper that spent more time forming aeroplanes than being written on.

"The plan is this," Gilbert declared, whacking the blackboard that had been liberated from the school council with a conductor's baton misappropriated from the very Austrian who was the unwitting subject of their conversation. "Arthur, you circle him from around here, Elizaveta, play the role of the femme fatale. Lure him towards you, down the stairs with you feminine guiles, as _dubitable_ as they may be. Then I, with my awesomeness, will launch an aerial assault on him, leaping from the chandelier with a large sack. Having bundled him into this, we shall drag him to the radio station, making sure not to avoid any pot holes. Am I awesome, or am I _awesome?_"

A paper plane whizzed in a loop towards him, embedding itself in his white tufts of hair.

There was a noticeable stretch of silence before Arthur broke it, struggling to hide the way his lips twitched upwards in amusement.

"Awesomely a failure, you mean. Beilschmidt, I hate to break it to you, but this isn't exactly an espionage film set in the second world war. And where did you get that Prussian uniform?"

Gilbert cast a downward glance at his dark blue attire, before waving a flippant hand.

"Drama department. I told the Finnish kid I was staging a re-enactment at the local theatre," He coughed loudly, tapping the board impatiently. "Now can we get back down to business?"

"It would help," Arthur returned, folding his arms casually, "If we knew exactly _why_ you're so eager to get him out. Also, why does he live with _you?_ The two of you can't stand each other. I mean, the last time I saw you, it was that catastrophic Hallow - " The shrill ringtone of a mobile phone interjected before he could elaborate, and his hand dived for his back pocket. Whoever the caller was, they were deeply unwelcome. His face seemed to shutter over for a moment as he checked the ID, holding a hand up. "Do you think you could hold it for a moment? I need to take this."

"Certainly not! Did Julius Caesar allow his troops to take a dip in the Rubicon before they crossed it? Did Bismarck ever allow – oh go ahead," he groaned as the sound of _his_ phone started echoing in the room to the tune of a jaunty marching song. "I'd better answer this as well."

"I'll go into the hallway," Arthur offered quickly, already sliding past the doorframe. "Please don't crease my duvet." The only response he got was a sharp, short nod as the other flipped open his phone.

"Hello, Beilschmidt speaking."

In order to assert the reason _why_ Gilbert was so determined, the topic of the Beilschmidt-Edelstein feud must be broached.

It was almost as infamous as the Adnan-Karpusi debacle of two years ago, in which blood, sweat and tears were shed, lost and secreted in gutters (and no-one _ever_ talked about the sewer incident, _ever_).

Many linked the starting point to the moment, when to the shock of all present, Roderich Edelstein, student head of the music department arrived outside of one of the girls' classrooms and promptly began serenading Elizaveta Hedervary on the violin. He was promptly collared by a prefect and reported to one of the residing heads, and unfortunately, Principal Hassan did not look at it with quite the same romantic penchant that her students seemed to have. He was sent off with a warning, but little else and school legend had it that when Gilbert Beilschmidt, of devil eyed and white haired fame heard, all hell broke loose.

_Literally._

Gilbert bombarded the other with all manner of assaults, including liberal use of water and stink bombs, desecrated his homework, when he could get his hands on it, deliberately managed to set school council meetings an hour early so the other arrived late. How he achieved the last, no-one knew, seeing as the council should not even have taken notice of such a miscreant as him. Francis Bonnefoy did seem significantly Arthur Kirkland-free for the next week however, and there was the frightfully handy coincidence that the blonde had to deal with an extra surge in complaints regarding the elder Beilschmidt's behaviour.

Roderich, in turn deeply connected with the heritage of Austria's musicians, composed a sonata lasting half an hour entitled '_The Hooligan Swine,'_ and unfailingly performed a movement from it each lunch time, before selling it to the school body.

A week later, he was going out with Elizaveta, and their on-off relationship had captured (and was still capturing) the eyes and ears of the majority of the school population.

Another version was that the whole fight occurred much later, after the first breakup .

Gilbert had tolerated Roderich so far; he trusted the Austrian pretty boy about as far as he could throw him with two broken arms, but he was decent to Elizaveta, even if he did prefer her to be more feminine than she previously had been. He made her happy, although he _was_ uptight and couldn't take a decent practical joke and they existed in an uneasy equilibrium, the three of them.

It was enough equilibrium for Gilbert to merely clench his fist when Roderich, evicted from his dormitory for absurd noises at all times of the night, moved into the Beilschmidt household at the behest of Ludwig.

What he did _not_ tolerate however, was the fact that Edelstein was merely content to freeload. He wasn't poor, that much was clear from the cut of his casual clothing and his abundance of suits and purple velvet coats. Frugality, Gilbert could admire; he was sparing with his own money and blanched at anything that was overly expensive. What he _didn't_ admire was that this particular frugality mirrored Vash Zwingli's, and he was rather keen on their front garden _not_ becoming a rather active shooting range, thank you _very much._

His dislike soon manifested itself when this parsimonious nature also seemed to extend to never paying rent. Knowing Gilbert, it was only a matter of time before he vocalised it, and it was from there that things turned decidedly frosty.

It was one thing to assure someone of the potential success of an endeavour, but it was quite another to actually try and go through with it – a dark cloud was already looming over Elizaveta as she prised open the door, the hinges creaking as she pulled it.

An avalanche of paper promptly spilled out, spilling around her feet as she made her way into the room.

"If it's Gilbert," an irritated voice resounded from what looked like a landslide of music, "Go away, please, you uncultured ruffian," Sheets drifted like snow in the air, thick and furious as the sound of frantic scribbling could be heard, and it was in the middle of the maelstrom that she found her paramour, otherwise known to others as Roderich Edelstein.

He was a year older than her, well groomed and enviably elegant, from his straight posture to his manner of dress – his clothes were always sharp and clean – something which could not be said for certain other teenagers in her acquaintance, and he never went out without a cursory glance at the large mirror that was in the hall of the house.

Despite his lavish surroundings, and frequently fresh changes of clothing, all of which looked as if it had come out of a high fashion catalogue, he lived like a pauper, frugally and economically, to the extent that several pairs of underwear looked more as if they had been made out of patches than any recognisable material.

Today however, he looked pressurised instead of calm, and there were noticeable bags underneath his eyes, even more marked by the purple of his irises. A tower of crumpled paper balls had accumulated next to him as he dashed out yet more notes, muttering curses under his breath as he once again shredded another sheet. When she gave no reply, amazed at the sheer amount of music, he looked up, and the flinty glint in his eyes diminished slightly, expression melting into a smile. "Hello, my love."

"Have you eaten recently?" she returned, folding her arms obstinately. "I swear last time I could feel your ribs poking into my side like another pair of fingers."

"I had a meal," he nodded, as if agreeing with an invisible audience. "Ludwig brought it up for me."

"How much of it did you eat?"

"Enough." He turned to his papers yet again, capped his fountain pen with a sigh.

"Trouble?"

"This new piece is extremely difficult to write. It's for the university nearby, you know, the one with that music program I want to join for young adults. They asked me to display my skills in one five minute piece which I have to perform at some point. The problem is, I have the ideas, they just…don't fit the time quota. Tell me," he drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table, as if copying an imperceptible beat. "Does three time or four time sound better?" She laughed in response, folding her hands behind her back as she stepped forward, picking her way through the debris in a bird-like fashion. She stopped just short of him, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek. He accepted it graciously, before turning to catch her on the lips.

"How long have you got for it?" she asked, when they'd both managed to catch their breath. "I think a waltz would be good. Maybe you can submit it for our dancing classes."

"Are you still paired with Beilschmidt?" he grumbled, scanning his notes once more. There was a pause before he hummed the melody, foot resuming the beat. "I've been thinking about moving you know. I mean, the rest of the house is friendly, but that _ruffian_ strikes a balance."

"I don't think you need to worry, Roderich," she replied blithely, her smile amused. "I don't think he likes you either. You know, though, there's a spot in the radio station which looks like it needs a regular musician to keep it filled." He shot her a wry, semi-bemused glance.

"If I didn't know any better, Liza," he started, drawing out each word in a lilting tone. "I'd think you were encouraging me. Moving takes a lot of time, you know."

"You never unpacked half your stuff. Besides," she balanced on his chair, drawing whorls into the soft material of the arm. "Think of all the _equipment._"

"I do hope that's not an innuendo."

"Will you think about it? I've heard you barely have to pay anything."

"I barely have to pay anything here."

"There'd be no sense of obligation though, would there?" she tilted her head, and his eyes strayed to the patch of neck that was bared, the hint of a chain glinting around it. Her expression was mild as she watched him through half lidded eyes, soaking in the light that came from the large double windows. "Think about it, no having to sort through shared laundry. No slamming Gilbert's doors open when his games become too loud." Roderich sniffed at that, sliding a little down his seat.

"I do not _slam doors._ I close them firmly and decisively. Anyway, the weather's lovely today," If she noticed his switch between topics, she didn't comment, nodding in agreement. "We haven't spent much time together recently," He rose, extending hi s arm. "Would you like to accompany me on a stroll, Lady Hedervary?" She grinned in response, tucking hers into the crook of his elbow.

"It would be my pleasure."

Of course, luck being rather whimsical, it turned out that the front hall of the house _did_ have a chandelier. A rather nice one in fact, dripping with glass ornaments and alight with a multitude of light bulbs.

It also had one self-propelling white haired German, complete with hemp sack and a large grudge against certain composers.

* * *

Sorry for the late update! Well, I hope the AusHun was convincing (I feel like I should be writing HunAus, because Hungary seems to be the most, er, authoritative, in the relationship?) I'm not used to writing it, but I have a feeling that their relationship wouldn't be as stormy most of the time as a PrusHun. Then again PrusHun could also be fluffy and...well.

I had some questions asking about whether or not there would be any pairings. I'm not sure I'm going to put ones in that haven't already been established in the Radio Hetalia (general name for things related to the stor(ies) ) pre-story just yet, but there'll be hints as it continues. So yes, I'm sorry if you don't ship AusHun, but it's going to stick around for the duration of this story, but it won't feature as a large issue.


	6. Chapter 6

OK, as much as I'm pretty sure Author's Note often bring impending hiatuses, I thought I'd better put one on this fic.

Sorry for not updating in a while, but I've decided to rewrite this story; it's not going entirely the way I wanted it to go, and I think the quality could be better.

I'll still keep this story up, but I'm afraid I'm going to take it down chapter by chapter and reupload the new ones. There are going to be a few changes, but hopefully nothing too drastic.


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